Exposed
by GlenWing
Summary: Sequel to Vulnerable due to popular demand! Draco's escaped his father, the Death Eaters, even Voldemort ... but when he finds himself alone in an unfamilier world, hunted by those he once called family, he feels a little, well, exposed ...


Exposed

A sequel to Vulnerable, due to popular demand, thankyou to all my wonderful reviewers, I luv u all very much:P

NB. Vulnerable was meant as a oneshot, but you guys changed my mind! Anywho…the sequel is gonna be a more structured story to keep you all happy!

Chapter 1: Hard Tarmac 

He had less than a minute to get out of there. He stuffed his wand in his pocket. Where would he go? Where wouldn't they find him? He had an idea, but apparating that far…He had no choice. He gathered all his strength, concentrated on that destination with all his might. And with a final "Snap!" He disappeared from sight. His father howling in fury behind him.

_Freedom. _That was the last thought on his mind as he hit the pavement, his knees giving in, his mind going blank. _Freedom._

_Freedom._

The dawn sky started to brighten under the weak rays of the winter sun. Cold shafts of light crept slowly across streets, down alleys and over the hedges and fences of gardens. Shadows piled up in corners, fleeing the oncoming sun as day stole, sluggishly, across the landscape. And as the golden orb rose in the now clear morning sky, its rays touched upon and illuminated a small figure, lying in a crumpled heap on the pavement.

A milkman was out on his rounds, whistling softly as he went about his business along the small, neat rows of semi-detached houses that lined the narrow street. As he drove past the bus shelter by number 22 he noticed the figure. He stopped the cart and got out, walking over to what appeared to be a pretty messed up teenager. He had white blonde hair, and quite a thin figure, and he wore a lot of black. The milkman didn't approve of people who wore a lot of black on principal, but his sense of moral duty eventually prevailed over his dislike for modern fashion. He gave the boy a gentle shake.

"Its alright lad, wake up." He said quietly; he wasn't really sure what to say when the boy did wake up, but this seemed like a good starting point. The boy stirred slightly, but instead of waking up, he started mumbling incoherently.

"Death Eaters…Father…Can't make me! No…must get away…Let go!"

He shouted these two syllables, springing up at the same moment. The milkman jumped back in surprise and alarm. The fury in the boy's eyes was alarming; they burned with a feverish light that shone with such intensity that the milkman couldn't hold his stare. Then, within an instant, this look of anger was replaced by one of surprise and confusion. He looked around as if trying to find his bearings, almost as if he didn't know where he was. The milkman would normally have thought that the boy had had a little too much to drink the night before, but he couldn't detect even the slightest hint of alcohol about the boy. Then there was that stare, no teenager with a hangover could stare like that.

"It's alright lad, I was only trying to help." He said calmly, he didn't want to upset the boy even more. Clearly he had a few problems, with his father especially, and he didn't want to be the object of any more. The boy looked around again, slowly, before settling his gaze on the man in front of him.

"W…where am I?" He asked quietly, as if speaking was an effort. He put his hand to his head and rubbed slowly, wincing as his hand pressed on a rather large bruise. As he raised his hand his shirt rode up slightly, revealing his bandaged torso.

"What happened there lad?" Asked the milkman, genuinely concerned.

"Nothing." Said the boy, speaking more clearly now, and with more force. He looked around again. "Where am I?" He repeated.

"Bond Street, Little Whinging." Replied the milkman, getting steadily more worried about the young man in front of him. "Are you from around here?" He asked, "'Cos I could probably give you a lift to your house if you're on my rounds."

"N…no, I'm not local." The boy tried to get up, but he only got as far as his hands and knees before he cried out in pain, falling flat on the floor, tears beading his eyes. The milkman stepped over to help the youth, who was clearly in a great deal of pain, but got waved away. He knelt down beside the boy and put his hand of his shoulder, as if to try and comfort him, but all it did was inspire more distress in the boy, so he took it away quickly. This boy clearly needed medical help, but he didn't seem to want to accept any, almost as if he'd rather live through the pain than get it seen to. Another bout of anguish wracked the boy's slender frame, before he suddenly collapsed, breathing in shallow jagged bursts. His head hit hard tarmac and all was quiet.

The milkman wasted no time; he ran back to his van and grabbed his mobile phone out of the glove compartment, dialling 999 as he ran over to the youth once more. He stayed with the boy until the ambulance came about ten minutes later; while one of the paramedics listened to his hurried description of the events that had happened since seeing the boy this morning, the other lifted him gently onto a stretcher and secured that inside the vehicle. When they had finished the paramedics thanked him and took his phone number so that they could let him know what happened to the mysterious boy. A minute later the milkman was alone in the street once more, wondering at the strange events of the morning.

_Well, it's not every day something like that happens. _He thought as he got back into his van to continue his rounds. And he was quite right.

Draco was having a nightmare. He was chained to a wall in a dungeon. Everywhere around him he could smell the rank stench of death, decay and mouldering flesh. Vaguely in the gloom he could make out shapes clinging to the other walls, manacled like he was. He tried to call out to them, but all that came out of his mouth was a strangled, hoarse cough. No one noticed him. He heard a small pattering of feet in one corner. _Rats. _He thought. The air around him was damp and musty; he could feel it on his face, like a damp cloth stinking of mildew. Now the feeling crept all across his body; he looked down and realised he was naked in the darkness. A wave of nausea hit him and his stomach churned. He felt open and alone; exposed.

A lock clicked somewhere, and a shaft of light appeared through a slit in what he assumed was the door. He could just make out the eyes behind it. Grey and cold.

"Father?" He choked.

The slit slid shut and darkness returned. Draco blinked, his eyes starting to adjust once more. His father was out there; was he responsible for this? Wherever he was, he didn't know how he had gotten there. The cold chill of fear returned. He wretched and emptied his stomach over the floor. He coughed and wiped his mouth with his hand; the chains allowed him to reach that far at least. He began to tug on the chains, his hands following them up to the pegs that held them to the wall. They were secure, heavy, and he knew he'd never get them loose.

"Arrggh!" He growled in frustration. How could his father do this to him? Where was his mother? Why did she not stop him? Thoughts running through his head; questions to which he had no answer.

Suddenly he heard the faint sound of footsteps outside his cell, and something else: a slithering, hissing sound. Fear twisted around him like a vicious creeper. A snake? That to him could mean only one person. He felt like he was going to be sick again. Bile rose in his throat, but he choked it back down.

A key clicked in the lock.

Light streamed into the cell, illuminating the various sources of the stench inside the confined space. Rotting bodies, in various stages of decomposition, were chained at assorted intervals around the wall. Small puddles of vile looking liquid gathered in the sunken corners of the room and in the spaces between the tiles. The bones of small rodents cracked underfoot as the three hooded men entered the room. One of them waved his wand and the door slammed shut again. A wall of silence hit Draco like a thousand knives. Then one of the figures spoke.

"Ssssoooo," the figure spoke with a faint hiss; his soft yet malevolent voice made Draco think of oiled silk, sweet poisons and the loving caress of a blades sharp edge, "What do we have here?"

"A traitor my lord." Said another, this voice was steel covered in a layer of velvet, unmistakably his father's. He tried to choke out a plea for aid, but his voice had ceased to function.

"He mussst be punisshed." Said the silky voice that could be none other than Lord Voldemort. The snake, Nagini, slid across the floor and started to slither up his leg, twisting around his body. It reached his chest and started to curl around his upper body, round and round his naked torso until it started to squeeze. Slowly, ever so slowly, the giant snake began to crush the breath and the life of the boy's weak body. He felt a rib crack; the pain of it coursed through him. He screamed and arched his back as shots of anguish lanced through his chest.

"Father!" He yelled, "Please!"

"You are no son of mine." Said his father softly. Voldemort was smiling through his thin, bloodless lips; the wand light from the third figure illuminated his face as he slowly lifted his hood from his head, snakelike eyes reflecting the light. Suddenly he began to hiss, a sharp command in a language Draco could not comprehend. _Parseltongue. _He thought.The snake stopped crushing, but the pain still lingered. It hissed back, angry at being interrupted, but Voldemort gave another, hissed command, and the giant snake began to un-curl itself, hitting the floor of the cell with a satisfying thump. Draco hanged there limply, wondering why Voldemort had ordered the snake off. Pain still coursed through him from the vicious assault, but at least he was alive.

"I think," hissed Voldemort softy, "that I have a more satisfying ending for you, traitor." He turned and faced the third figure. This one was slimmer than the other two - taller as well - with a bearing that reminded him of…

"Kill him." ordered Voldemort. He gestured with his wand and the cell door opened, "Let him die in the knowledge that it was his own blood that ended him."

The third figure lifted its hood; black silk slid over white blond hair, olive green eyes shone in the light of the opened door.

"Avada Kedavra!" Yelled his mother.

He screamed as the jet of green light sped toward him. He screamed at the betrayal in fear. The light obscured everything else. There was a flash, and he knew no more.

He woke, screaming, thrashing around under the bedclothes, his body contorting as if trying to break free of some invisible enemy.

"Mother! Mother how could you? I need you!"

Unfamiliar men and women wearing white coats and carrying strange implements around their necks were running at him from all directions. Some were calling for help, others for things Draco had never even heard of.

"We need morphine here now, stat!"

"Can we get some help here!"

"Someone control him, we can't do anything with him like this!"

Hands grabbed at him. He tried to force them away, but they grabbed his hands. His last memory was of a large, heavyset man leaning over him, some sort of needle clutched in his beefy hand. A brief flash of pain and Draco was flung into darkness once more.

White light surrounded him, bathing him in radiance so that he glowed, his hair reflecting the light in a thousand different ways. He felt like he was floating amid clouds. Then a strange sensation. Someone was poking him. Poking him in the side. It was painful.

"Ouch! Stop it!"

The curt, half-shouted command was enough to make the nurse back away from the bed. She had been waiting by the side of his bed on the ward matron's orders. A strange case, she had said. And she was right. The boy had no identification, no wallet, and no money. Yet his clothes looked expensive. According to the man that found him, the boy didn't seem to have known where he was. But he didn't carry any luggage, any spare clothes, or even a credit card. And he was so young. She had a son about his age, 16 or 17 she guessed. How did he land up here and with those scars on his back? They looked fresh, as did most of the bruising on his body. And yet they were bandaged up, almost perfectly, with Egyptian cotton.

And now the boy lay before her, awake, hours before he should be. Staring at her with those wide, startlingly grey eyes; his hair fuzzed by static from the nylon pillowcase. Indeed he looked quite dishevelled all over. But even then he still had the air of someone used to giving orders, and having them obeyed.

"Who…who are you?" He stuttered. His voice was softer this time, and a hint of fear showed in his eyes.

"You're in hospital. Someone found you by a bus shelter. You were pretty badly hurt, you've slept for the past two days." She tried to keep her voice constant, calm.

"A h…hospital?" He stammered. He looked confused. _Maybe he has a touch of amnesia,_ she thought. It might explain why he didn't know where he was, or, apparently, what a hospital was.

"We're here to look after you." She said carefully, making sure she kept her voice low and level. "Don't worry, no-one will hurt you." He still looked confused. "What's your name?" She asked.

"D…draco. Draco Malfoy."

"Well I'm Rose, I'm a nurse. I work here. It's nice to meet you Draco." Contact at last. _Well, at least we know he hasn't got amnesia. That'll help matters. _She looked at him critically again. He still looked tired, but not as bad as he did when they brought him in. Most of his bruises were easing up a bit, and the wounds on his back were healing nicely. Strange wounds, she mused to herself as she looked at him. It looked like someone had been hitting him with some sort of cane, only with a metal head; wood could not have bitten into the skin like that. Normally she would have put this kind of thing down to child abuse in the home. Only he didn't look like an abused kid. She'd seen them before; they always looked very solemn, wary, constantly looking over their shoulders. But this boy in front of her had none of that; even sitting in bed he seemed to hold himself like royalty, with the air of someone used to being obeyed. Something just wasn't right.

_Something just wasn't right_, thought Draco to himself as he lay in bed facing the muggle woman in front of him. He'd woken up again in a bright white room, scared, alone, and very wary. He'd had bad dreams, but thankfully the exact details were remaining elusive. He still half expected his father to apparate next to him. To carry him off. To take him back. Back to his nightmares.

That muggle was staring at him again. He didn't actually hate muggles, like he professed to at school. That was just a mode of behaviour set in him to impress his father and friends, and to annoy his enemies. Not that he wanted enemies. He didn't like it when people glared at him in the corridors. He didn't enjoy the feeling of being hated by everyone around him. Contrary to popular belief.

He suddenly realised that he didn't have a clue where in the country he was. The last things he remembered from the night before were thinking of the name of a street he'd heard Potter talking about, where he lived with muggles in the summer. The exact details were fuzzy, but he remembered roughly the name of the place. How no one would possibly look for him there. But what if someone did? What if his father figured it out? What if his father had used leglimency on him before he apparated? He shook his head, trying to rid himself of negative thoughts; another good thing his father had taught him: always plan with a clear mind, and always have an escape route.

"Excuse me," he said, trying to sound as healthy as possible, "but when am I allowed to go?"

The lady looked at him queerly. He was sure she was some kind of healer.

"Umm…" she said, looking doubtful, "I don't think it will be for a couple of days at least."

_Dammit! _He thought. He looked around him: one large window with a reasonably strong catch. Other than that, no way out, apart from the door which he was sure would be locked when the "healer" went out of the room. He could easily break the window with his…

"Where's my wand?" He blurted out, then caught his breath: she was a muggle. _Oh god! _He thought, _I'm done for now. _

"Your what? Sorry, I didn't catch that."

"Umm…nothin', just looking for my clothes." He breathed a sigh of relief as she treated him to a friendly smile.

"I'll have them brought down for you, they're in the laundry being washed. Any personal items found with them will be returned to you as well." She twitched her nose and looked thoughtful for a second.

"Draco," she said slowly, "Where are your parents? I should like to contact them just to let them know that you're safe, so they can come and pick you up when you're well." She was surprised, almost frightened, at the vehemence in his voice when he spoke. At the mention of his parents he jolted up, as if an electric current had been shot through him, the mad, staring quality she had seen in his eyes not long before was back, the irises almost burning, like cold, silver-grey flames.

"No!" It was just one word, but when he said it, it sounded like a command, plea and statement all in one. But she caught the edge in his voice: fear.

"Why not?" She ventured.

"I…" He started, then stopped. He looked down at his lap, breathing a bit more heavily than she would have suspected. Suddenly he looked up; "They're dead." This sentence sent shivers running down her spine. The fire was gone; in its place, a look of despair, hopelessness, and fear, his eyes solemn and deep. She wouldn't have been surprised to see tears.

"I'm so sorry," she mumbled, "when did it happen?" He stared at her; she looked so sincere, she actually cared. He felt a deep sense of guilt for lying to her.

"Thirteen years ago, they were murdered." The lie spilt so easily from his lips, his father had taught him well it seemed.

"Do you have anyone I could call? Any remaining relatives? Who do you stay with?" She looked very concerned now.

"Ummm…" He was stuck, he couldn't tell her about any real relatives or they would alert his father, and he didn't know the names of any, what did Granger call them? Hotels? What the hell was he going to tell her? Wait…

"I stay in a youth hostel." He said, praying he had the name right. He had heard some Hufflepuff's talking about them last year at school; he hadn't heard all of the conversation though. _Please let her buy it. Please._

"Oh," she said, looking even more worried, "Which one?"

"Umm…I move around a lot. I don't like staying in one place for too long." He couldn't tell whether his lie was holding. She looked almost suspicious for a second, then her face softened.

"Poor boy." She muttered to herself.

He sighed with relief, and was surprised that the motion brought no pain from his side. He sat up slowly, experimenting with small movements, only experiencing flashes of discomfort when moving his shoulders. He'd spent his life hearing how bad muggle medicine was, but it didn't seem to have done him any wrong. He noticed the woman staring at him again.

"What?" He said.

"Nothing, its just I have a son about the same age as you," she looked almost guilty for a second, "I guess I just feel a bit more attached to you than my other patients." She twitched her nose.

"Anyway," she said, and looked like she was going to say something when a strange beeping filled the chamber. Draco jumped back, immediately regretting it as his shoulders collided with the bedpost. Tears flashed in his eyes, and a small cry of pain escaped his mouth. Rose was on him in an instant.

"I keep telling them to change those metal posts. Here you go, lie down, that's it. Is it alright now?" Her eyes showing genuine care, something Draco rarely witnessed, especially when in pain.

"I'm fine." He said, wincing.

"Good." She handed him a small plastic cup. "Swallow these, they'll help with the pain, should make sleeping easier. I have to go in a second, one of my other patients has had a nasty fall."

The cup contained two small capsules, on red and one white. He looked doubtful.

"Just swallow them." She encouraged, in mock exasperation.

He took one last look at them, and tipped them down his throat. They tasted bland, almost like paper. But as soon as they hit his stomach the pain started to decrease, and he started feeling a little light headed.

"I'll see you later, Draco," said Rose, "sweet dreams."

As she left the room he heard the door locked, affirming his early suspicions. _How on earth am I going to get out of here? _ Before his father found him. It was with these uneasy thoughts that he slipped into a shallow, fitful sleep. Filled with shadows and images. And one word.

Escape.


End file.
